Let me put into words what was happening to
him at the very time at which he had made this sweet place his
home. He had already done as much in those early years as many men
do in a lifetime. He had written great poems, he had loved and
wedded, he had made abundant friends, his wealth was growing fast;
he loved every detail of his work, designing, weaving, dyeing; he
had a band of devoted workers and craftsmen under him. He could
defy the world; he cared nothing at all for society or honours. He
had magnificent vitality, a physique which afforded him every kind
of wholesome momentary enjoyment.
In the middle of all this happy activity a cloud came over his
mind, blotting out the sunshine. Partly, perhaps, private sorrows
had something to do with it; partly, perhaps, a weakening of
physical fibre, after a life of enormous productivity and restless
energy, made itself felt. But these were only incidental causes.
What began to weigh upon him was the thought of all the toiling
thousands of humanity, whose lives of labour precluded them from
the enjoyment of all or nearly all of the beautiful things that
were to him the very essence of life; and, what was worse still, he
perceived that the very faculty of higher enjoyment was lacking,
the instinct for beauty having been atrophied and almost eradicated
by sad inheritance, He saw that not only did the workers not feel
the joyful love of art and natural beauty, but that they could not
have enjoyed such pleasures, even if they were to be brought near
to them; and then came the further and darker thought, that modern
art was, after all, a hollow and a soulless thing.
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